


Tomorrow/Whiskey

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [3]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certainty and secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow/Whiskey

Monday, December 20, 1999

They’ve been parked on a side street overseeing the alley behind Lovera’s store for about twenty minutes. Their mark seems to have a pattern, and it’s one they picked up yesterday. If Lovera’s dumb enough and if Wrench and Numbers are lucky enough, he’ll repeat it again tonight, confirming it wasn’t some kind of weekend fluke and granting them an opportunity to strike.

_“There’s no way he still has the money.”_

_“He has it.”_

_“But you’ve seen the shop. That place is a dump. If he had it, he’d fix up his store. Make it less of a shit hole.”_

Numbers wearily shakes his head. The two have been going round and round with this all day over lukewarm cups of coffee and bags of chips. The irony that a pair of cops might be somewhere in town right now guzzling the same swill and staking out some cretin doesn’t miss either man. _“I’m telling you, he’s keeping the cash. His store’s going under. No money coming in. No customers—we’ve seen barely ten, this whole weekend! He’ll file for bankruptcy and have a nice $200,000 cushion to fall back on, compliments of Fargo. He thinks he’s won.”_

He has zero doubts about this. Sure, it’s strange that Lovera is still in town, and that he doesn’t seem the least bit paranoid about his missed appointment with Fargo. But the people he’s commissioned to kill make mistakes that can be chalked up to them being massive dimwits. Fucking over the wrong people, not knowing how to hide, not knowing who to trust. Idiots, all of them, and Lovera’s near the top of the list as far as the nitwits he’s had the pleasure of taking out go, even if he’s still alive for the time being. _“I promise that’s what’s happening. That’s his plan. Trust me.”_

Wrench remains less than convinced, and hints of exhaustion trace his features as he gives the wheel another spin. _“No. You’re wrong. Guy’s too calm,”_ he says, the squeaks of his leather jacket against faux leather seats accompanying his movements. _“Fargo can’t find the man he owed money to, remember? He could have that guy locked up in a cage in his basement for all we know.”_

 _“Seriously?”_ Numbers asks, nearly laughing at the ridiculousness of Wrench’s line of thought. After three days of spending every waking moment with his associate he’s starting to think that even if he worked ten whole years with Wrench he would still be surprised by some of the shit he says.

Instead of saying “What do you think?” Wrench gives him a look that says it, more or less.

 _“So that guy’s missing,”_ he says, diving headfirst back into the debate _. “He’s a loan shark. A scumbag. A million things could have happened to him that have nothing to do with this.”_

 _“And L-O-V-E-R-A skipped the drop with our collectors,”_ Wrench continues, disregarding Numbers’ words as if they were never put out there to begin with. _“He knows what Fargo does, what its people are capable of. And he’s not afraid. Something’s off.”_ His long limbs stretch as far as the cramped passenger seat will allow, and he accompanies the gesture with a wide, silent yawn.

 _“Then let’s do this,”_ Numbers says once Wrench turns back to him. _“Find out which one of us is right.”_ He checks the clock on the dashboard: 6:58. _“He should be out in a minute.”_

Wrench’s index and middle fingers meet his thumb in a very emphatic “no.” He follows that up with, _“One more day.”_

Allowing Numbers some privacy to express the exasperation Wrench saw looming on the horizon minutes ago and rushing closer by the second, he turns his attention back towards the alley while Numbers knocks his skull against the headrest and mumbles a few of his favorite colorful words. There’s a bonus in it for them if they finish early, and it’s not like he’s in this messy line of work to see the states or for the life experience or whatever the hell reason Wrench is probably in it for, because the man certainly acts like he couldn’t care less about the payout. When he’s through cursing Wrench backwards and forwards he jabs at his arm. _“What more do you need, man? Let’s get this over with.”_

 _“Certainty,”_ Wrench signs after hesitating, his cheeks flushing pink as a bad memory overtakes his usual hard-headedness.

 _“It’s not for us to be sure if he still has the money or if he spent it or lost it or if he ate it. Boss wants us to find out what happened to it, off him, and report back. And that’s what we’ll do,”_ he signs rigidly, angrily, _“because that’s our job.”_

If smirking makes Wrench appear younger, frowning has the complete opposite effect; with the unflinching grimace he displays now he looks even older than Numbers. _“One more day. We get him tomorrow.”_

Numbers’ reply is cut off by the back door to Lovera’s shop opening and the diminutive silhouette of the store’s namesake emerging with the day’s garbage. He unceremoniously chucks the bag into the dumpster as Wrench glances from Lovera to Numbers and earnestly repeats, _“Tomorrow.”_

A minute passes and with his chore finished, Lovera re-enters his store. Numbers had wavered because he couldn’t say for sure Wrench would have stood by him, and he’s not certain which half of that equation was worse. But the moment’s gone and they can’t get him now: if they barge into the place he’ll set off the alarm and that’s the last fucking thing they need. _“Fine. You win,”_ Numbers says, though his mind tacks on the words “by default.” _“Tomorrow.”_

Wrench looks down, not feeling at all like the victor. This hesitance doesn’t suit him yet he remains stuck on a recollection that he doesn’t dare explain, not with Numbers’ dark eyes scrutinizing him. Another time, maybe. From his days with his partner he understands that Numbers has shown an act of benevolence he can’t expect again, and he almost feels indebted to him.

When he finally looks up he finds Numbers’ hands saying with surprising softness, _“Let’s get you a drink.”_

~~~~

Five whiskeys in and Numbers has to hand it to Wrench: the kid can hold his booze. Or, at least he holds it much better than Numbers does.

The bar’s filled with holiday drunkards, some rosy-cheeked and merrily singing along with the non-stop Christmas carols that blare from the jukebox, others forlornly slumped over shot glasses and trying to forget whatever heartache they’re nursing. Some, unfortunately, stupidly gape at Wrench and Numbers whenever their hands move, and Numbers has had it up to _here_ with those people.

 _“If those fuckers look over here again,”_ Numbers begins, hands stumbling over a few gestures as he nods towards the group of college kids in the corner, _“I am going to choke them. All of them. I mean it.”_

Wrench waves him off, _“Don’t worry about them. Take it out on L-O-V-E-R-A tomorrow.”_

 _“Yeah,”_ Numbers knocks, grateful that sign is much easier. _“Yeah, I’m gonna.”_

The men polish off their tumblers, and Numbers sways in his barstool like a reed. His face feels like the sun and everything’s out of focus but this is exactly what he needs, impending hangover be damned.

Wrench wonders if Numbers is inebriated enough to talk to him about something other than work, and ventures a question. _“How’d you learn to sign?”_

Numbers groans and flags down the bartender for another round, wondering why Wrench has to ruin the good thing they’ve had going for the past hour. Plotting how to best wring the information out of Lovera’s a fine enough topic, if you ask him. No need to deviate from it with nosiness. _“Nothing personal,”_ his hands slur, _“but **nothing personal**. Understand?”_

 _“Come on,”_ Wrench persists as the matronly barkeep refills their glasses, _“you can ask me anything you want, after.”_

Numbers doesn’t want to play this game, he only wants to let his head swim. _“I just know, ok?”_

Wrench snorts. _“You just know? You came out of your mother knowing how to sign?”_

His glassy eyes roll at his partner. _“No.”_

 _“So how’d you learn?”_ When this goes unanswered, Wrench rubs at the stubble on his chin and offers, _“I didn’t learn until I was six.”_

 _“Six?”_ Numbers takes a long sip of his drink. “Jesus,” he mutters aloud. _“How’d you… Why did…”_ He shakes his hands out, frustrated that his words are getting lost somewhere between his brain and his fingers. Finally, he decides on a simple, _“That’s messed up.”_

Wrench shrugs indifferently, downing half his glass and wincing at the sting. _“When did you start?”_

His fingers drum against the bar until he figures the least he can do is reciprocate some information. With a few more drinks he won’t even remember this conversation in the morning. Wrench might—no, he definitely will, he’s somehow only about one sheet to the wind to Numbers’ three—but that’s something to tackle when and if he brings any of this up again. _“Twelve.”_

_“Why?”  
_

_“Had to.”_

The words hang for Wrench to pick up and pick apart. _“For who?”_ he finally asks, the whiskey bringing red to his own face. _“Family? A parent?”_

Numbers clenches his jaw but can’t bite back the loud, bitter laugh that erupts from him, defying the acidic sensation that courses from his gut to his tongue. His hands hold a white-knuckled grip around his glass of whiskey and for the first time in ages he not only feels that drinking was a terrible idea but that he might actually cry. He turns his face downward and seethes, preferring his stomach full of sulfur to water in his eyes.

Quirking an uneasy eyebrow, Wrench knows better than to make any more words. Maybe Numbers was right about sticking to business. Maybe it’s best they both have their secrets for now, a taciturn duo with their own heavy crosses to bear.


End file.
